


feeling's old but it's new to me i guess

by zayzigzag



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Washington Capitals, tom realizing the obvious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 08:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11353389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zayzigzag/pseuds/zayzigzag
Summary: The realization nearly knocks Tom in the gut before it fizzles out into the edges of his brain, quietly seeping into the corners.inspired by the song "I Just Do" by Dear and the Headlights





	feeling's old but it's new to me i guess

**Author's Note:**

> timeline is not exactly correct, but everything is modeled off [real things](https://www.russianmachineneverbreaks.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/tom-wilson-dc-modern-luxury-mag.jpg) that [really happened](https://www.russianmachineneverbreaks.com/2016/02/05/cupcakes-and-iced-coffee-tom-wilson-is-a-basic-white-girl/)

Mike is breathing against the back of Tom’s neck when Tom wakes up a few minutes before their six am alarm. It has always been a habit of his, or an extension of a personality. He has always been able to brute force a goal into his mind, unable to unhinge it until it address itself. Tom wakes up before his alarms, he scores in overtime, he makes Mike’s coffee the way he likes it before he even knows what he is doing. Tom knows there is some part of himself that is way smarter than the rest of him—like one of those Russian dolls that Ovi has in his locker—some smaller version of himself that lives inside the life size one. Yeah, that version has repeatedly saved his own ass.

Tom rolls out of bed, starts the coffee maker, and puts bread in the toaster. He hears the alarm he set go off in Mike’s bedroom; he hears Mike groan. Tom smiles to himself.

“Morning sunshine!” he yells.

* * *

 

Tom’s agent said it’d be a good idea to do an interview and photo shoot for some snooty DC magazine, and Tom realized a long time ago that he is no good at anything related to his hockey career except the hockey part. So he agrees, and now he’s spending his afternoon between practices getting his face powdered. The Caps are all about community presence (Trotz’s words), and it never hurts to do some extra interviews outside the locker room, a setting where he can actually say more than one sentence at a time. Plus, it’s not like it’s hard to stand around in a suit and look serious.

Tom’s drinking a latte with a heart made from the foam talking to one of the writers, Dana, about his personal style. Thank goodness this woman seems to be amazing at her job and already has a bunch of talking points since he doesn’t know shit about how to describe his own style.

“Uh I guess I sort of copy the guys around me?” Tom ventures.

“What do you find yourself emulating from the rest of the team? Holtby’s style is surely one of a kind.”

“Oh hell no, I’m not a civil war general,” Tom laughs, “I could never pull off the looks Holts does. I like a timeless look. I’m a pretty simple guy so I like not having to worry about actually pulling an outfit together,” Tom responds.

Dana laughs at that, and writes on her notepad “classic.” Tom can roll with that.

“Actually, I remember buying a new suit down here in DC. Me and Latts went shopping like idiots, like puppy dogs wandering around without a clue.”

Dana nods. “I can see the similarities in your styles. You two do seem to have a lot in common,” she says warmly.

Tom can’t help but smile. It seems to be an involuntary reflex at this point any time someone else brings Mike’s name up.

“Yeah, I mean we just clicked automatically it was like, mindless sort of. We’re just super comfortable around each other,” Tom trails off. He’s looking down into his mug down, a stupid dopey grin on his face.

When he looks back up Dana is looking at him like she’s in on a secret he hasn’t figured out yet. Tom bristles at it—he’s always been good with media, but it’s still weird to him that anyone is interested in what he has to say.

Thankfully one of the photographers interrupts them, requesting that Tom change into the last outfit before they lose the light outside.

He shakes Dana’s hand, thanks her, and then heads into the dressing room. They have him set up with a sweater and a pair of dark wash jeans. For some reason he’s antsy though, even though there’s only one more outfit to get to he’s suddenly in no rush to head back out there. He feels like Dana is mocking him for something, but when he runs back through the conversation he can’t find a single instance of her being anything but nice.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Mike’s answered the phone.

“What’s up, Willy, aren’t you supposed to be shooting the cover of GQ or something?” Mike answers, skipping past a greeting.

“Yeah, that’s it. Breaking my contract as we speak and going into pocket square modeling,” Tom sarcastically replies.

“You don’t even own a damn pocket square, idiot.”

“I totally do! What the hell!” Tom responds in faux outrage.

“You own cuff links with our dog’s face on them,” Mike responds definitively as if he just owned Tom.

Tom doesn’t reply, just smiles, which he seems to be doing a lot lately.

“I gotta go, last outfit before I fly to Paris for fashion week.”

Mike snorts. “You’d look good in ruffles,” he states like the most logical thing in the world and not something that knocks the wind out of Tom.

There’s a knock on the door, so Tom hangs up and slips quickly into the sweater and jeans, eager to get home.

* * *

 

Mike’s driving and Tom is fiddling with the radio, trying to find a station with music rather than talk radio. He lands on a station playing “Shake It Off,” and sighs with relief. Mike is always making a point to do things with their time off, and listen, Tom is all about activities and shit but with their schedule it’s hard not to spend days off laying in bed.

But last night after Mike rolled off him he asked if Tom would come with him to Georgetown cupcakes. Tom normally has trouble saying no to anything Mike requests, but Mike was truly scheming when he timed the request for when Tom’s idiot brain was slow with sex, so it makes perfect sense that they are driving through inches of snow just because Mike wants some damn gourmet cupcakes.

They finally find the place and park and get a dozen cupcakes plus hot chocolate even though none of those things fit into their diet plans. But it doesn’t really matter because Mike is smiling something stupid in the passenger seat on their way home after forcing Tom to drive back because he has to take a bite of each of them before Tom “picks favorites.” Whatever. Tom concedes knowing himself well enough that Mike is right, and anything with chocolate won’t stand a chance against him.

The roads are starting to ice over and because DC shits the bed any time it gets more than a half inch of precipitation the salt on the ground is just not cutting it. Tom is going slow, but still, his knuckles are going white clutching the steering wheel for dear life.

“Okay so in a stunning turn of events, the Strawberry Lava Fudge has made a tremendous comeback and clinched a playoff spot. The Salted Caramel was the favorite to win from the beginning, but the rookies are hot this season,” Mike explains, voice mocking Joe Beninati.

Tom looks over to see Mike with a grin taking up half his face, icing smearing the corners of his lips. Tom smiles involuntarily.

“Can you possibly spare, like, one bite for your humble chauffeur today?” Tom asks.

Before Mike can deny the request, Tom feels the steering wheel slip through his hands. Some dusty part of his memory brings up his father’s driving lessons reminding him to never slam the breaks on ice, so he lets the car drift, nearly into the divider. Tom’s heart stops and restarts  fifty times in the two seconds it takes for them to pass over the icy patch.

When he catches his breath he realizes his arm is flung across the gear shift and across Mike’s chest, barricading him to the seat.

They’re barely moving at this point, but there’s no one on the road ahead or behind them for Tom let’s himself take a moment. Mike reaches up and wraps his fingers around Tom’s wrist, holding his arm steady there. He lets him keep his arm there for the rest of the ride, until they get back to their apartment. It’s less than a mile away but Tom’s treating the whole thing as a school zone so it takes about five times longer than it should. If Mike minds, he doesn’t say so, just rubs his thumb soothingly in circles on the inside of Tom’s wrist.

There’s a weird embarrassment fizzling in his gut, knowing that he supremely overreacted to a singular patch of black ice. When he finally gets the car in park Tom lets himself look over.  Mike’s already looking back at him, eyes soft, corners of his mouth turned upward. He leans over to press a kiss to Tom’s temple.

“Should’ve protected the cupcakes instead of me, Willy,” Mike chirps, but it’s all sugar and no heat.

* * *

 

They clinch a playoff spot at home in overtime before Easter even happens and Tom feels like his skin isn’t big enough to hold all the energy inside him.

Schmidty has music blasting by the time they get in the locker room, and it’s taking everything in him not to scream with joy. These bright, sharp moments are the best part of all of this. Being a fucking team—holy shit—he’d give anything for this. He hopes this never stops feeling so good.

He feels Mike’s eyes on him, and he can’t help but walk up next to him and let Mike throw an arm around his neck.

Mike pulls him in roughly, “fucking playoffs, Willy!”

“Fucking right,” Tom answers back, wrapping his arm around Mike’s waist and lifting him off the floor.

Mike looks down at him, smile eating up half his stupid, perfect face. It feels like all the air leaves the room just for a second, like he is living some alternate life. He must’ve been a saint in his past lives to deserve this.  

Tom goes to hug Andre before he gets permanently sucked into Mike’s orbit for the rest of the night. There’s time for that later, he reminds himself.

They go out to their usual bar even though it’s a goddamn Tuesday, and Ovi buys everyone the first round, and then the second and third. It keeps going like this, and Tom truthfully is only half there mentally, body buzzing with excitement and enthusiasm, hinging on patience he didn’t know he had.

Mike is talking some shit with Kuzy about who knows what, and even though he’s not doing anything special, Tom can’t quit staring at him. His cheeks are flushed like they always get when he gets even remotely tipsy, and he’s waving his hands around like a fucking maniac telling a story, and his hair is all messed up from drying weird after his post-game shower. He looks absurd, and Tom is so fond of him he could explode.

Eventually the married guys tap out, and after that it seems like everyone suddenly becomes aware of their exhaustion. He calls an uber and gives Mike a nod that he’s ready to head out. Mike scrambles up from his seat, swaying a bit and then giggling. God, Tom is stupid over him.

Mike won’t stop talking about the game on their short ride home, keeps emphasizing how much more of the season they have left. It’s an unspoken thing that they both know but hate to think about, that Mike’s time here is finite. Tom feels it acutely, but right now it’s not as scary of a thought as it usually is. They’re going to the NHL Playoffs. It’ll be okay.

Mike shoves him up against the door the second they make it through, and Tom can’t help but laugh.

Mike’s already going for his belt, and it’s clear that Tom isn’t actually going to fuck him tonight what with Mike’s state and his own dick’s eagerness in the situation. But he’s fine with it. Mike is mouthing wetly as his jaw and he’s got a hand down the front of Tom’s pants, fingers fumbling to get a good enough grip.

Tom tilts his head so he can bite on Mike’s neck to which Mike responds disproportionately with a groan. Tom’s never been one for too much emotion during sex, not as a rule or anything it’s just how he’s usually been. Sex tends to fall closer to the category of “cross-training” in his mind than anything else. But—like most things, he’s finding—it’s different with Mike. Mike lays himself out when they fuck, unafraid to say what is and isn’t working for him (which also might just be his bossy side coming out). Tom finds himself smiling more than he thinks is normal when someone’s got their hands on your dick. But it’s good, it’s so fucking good and Tom can feel himself getting close to the edge with just how good it is. He didn’t realize it, but it knows now that he’s been revved up for a while and Mike is here to finally help him release it, thank god.

“Fuck, Latts, come on,” he breaths out.

Mike tightens his grip and drops his other hand to palm at Tom’s ass.

“You’re so good, Willy, so so good,” Mike says. Tom lets his brain stop working after that, the only focus of his mind where Mike’s hands are wrapped around him too tight.

Tom lets his head fall back and lets himself come. Mike is rubbing himself up against Tom’s thigh by the time his brain settles down enough for him to remember that he needs to reciprocate. But they’ve done this enough that Tom knows Mike would almost rather be doing this than getting something else from Tom. So Tom lifts his leg and grabs Mike’s hips so he comes down harder.

“You’re so easy for me,” Tom says and bites at the hinge of Mike’s jaw. Mike moans from the back of his throat and Tom twists his wrist harder. Mike comes, breathless and boneless.

Mike rests his head on Tom’s shoulder until his breath evens out and squirms with a bit of discomfort.

“You know, every time you end up doing that you make the same damn face. Didn’t you jizz in your pants enough as a fifteen year old to understand it’s disgusting.”

“Well, I’m not the one who just used the verb ‘jizz,’ so I really don’t think you’re in a place to criticize me,” Mike shoots back. Tom is impressed with his ability to form a full sentence, but Mike always seems to have the energy to chirp back at him.

Tom smiles again, or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling, he isn’t really sure. He pulls Mike in for another kiss and then guides them to the couch, just barely throwing a blanket over the two of them before passing out.

* * *

 

It feels like Mike’s thoughts are taking up actual, physical space in the room. They’re five games deep after they pull through and survive for a Game 6 against Pittsburgh, and Mike’s nerves are wound so tight Tom is surprised he’s even able to stand.

When they first moved into this apartment, Tom clapped his hands on Mike’s shoulders as they unloaded his rented SUV asking where all the rest of his stuff was.

“Uh, this is it,” Mike responded, shades of confusion and embarrassment showing across his face in equal measure.

Tom used to mess around with Mike about it, how everything he owned could fit into two suitcases, how jokingly easy it would be for Tom to kick Mike out for leaving dirty dishes in the sink. Tom stopped making those jokes a while ago when he stopped being an idiot, realizing that there perhaps might be a reason why Mike could hold all his belongings in just his stupid huge wingspan. Mike’s moved back and forth and up and down countries following this game, and Tom punched a wall when he had to go to Hershey for a year. So, yeah, Tom quit making the jokes when he realized he was being an asshole about things.

And at this point Tom knows how to handle most of Mike’s ups and downs, which don’t even happen very often to be fair. Mike’s brain works methodically, stepping through each emotion, evaluating, and progressing when necessary. Tom, on the other hand, is about as black and white as a guy can get. He tries to understand the gray areas of Mike, though, because that’s what you do. Mike makes him want to be better like that.

“You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack before we even get on the ice again, Latts,” Tom says.

Mike looks over, face smooth but held taut.

“You ever think about what we could be doing if we didn’t go for hockey?” Mike asks.

Tom pauses, considers. That’s another thing Mike helps him do, not spit out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Not really,” he replies.

“I mean what if we had a job that actually, like, ended. You know at the end of the day when you come home from work you could actually stop thinking about work,” Mike ponders.

Tom gets up from his seat at the end of the couch and moves over to the middle, resting his chin on Mike’s shoulder.

“Are you trying to tell me you’re quitting hockey to wear khakis  and work 9-5 every day?” Tom questions.

Mike lets his head lean on Tom’s. He doesn’t have to say it, Tom can feel the nerves bunched tight inside him. The restrained energy is practically bubbling up through Mike’s skin.

Tom swings his legs over so he’s straddling Mike, earning and “ooof” out of Mike before he settles his hands on Tom’s hips.

Tom smiles down at Mike for no real reason but just because it seems like the right thing to do, especially when Mike’s face looks sunken and sad. Tom leans down to kiss him, soft and kind at first. He reaches down to Mike’s wrists and pins them to his sides, pressing down into Mike’s lap. For the compromising position they are in, Tom keeps his kisses light still. He keeps going and going, kissing and kissing until he feels Mike loosen up slowing, tension finally starting to seep out of him. He covers every inch of Mike’s skin and then doubles back for more.

Tom takes his hands off Mike’s wrist to bring them up to Mike’s face, a finger swipes across each of Mike’s cheekbones. Tom presses a kiss to Mike’s forehead, sweet and unexpecting of anything in return.

Mike takes a steep inhale, circles his arms around Tom’s waist, and mumbles a quiet “thanks” into Tom’s shirt.

“Your ass can barely fit in khakis anyway,” Tom says proudly.

* * *

 

They have an end of season banquet, which probably should be sad but Tom doesn’t know how it’s possible to be anything but over the fucking moon when he’s here, with his boys, wearing a new suit and with a beer in his hand. Tom Wilson won’t pretend he’s anything other than a simple man. The team had their mourning period, talked to the media about why they couldn’t break the curse, went home, slept for the first time in what felt like centuries. Tom’s realized that they’re going to be okay. Oshie’s daughter is running around, Schmidty is bent over laughing, and Ovi is clinking his glass with every damn person in sight. If he’s got these guys, he’ll be okay.

Tom can’t stop smiling, feels like his luck is brimming over, and of course he and Mike came together but they get separated at some point. Tom’s scanning the room, eye flit over Backy and Holts before finally landing on Mike, smiling huge and laughing next to Liza. For the all the eagerness that was there before, Tom is stopped in his tracks, watching Mike from the side as he leans into Liza, trying to hear her better. His eyes are shining, hand loosely holding a beer.

The realization nearly knocks Tom in the gut before it fizzles out into the edges of his brain, quietly seeping into the corners. Tom walks over to where Mike is standing.

“Hey Liza, mind if I make Mike help me sneak my phone into the Aux cord?”

Mike rolls his eyes, and Tom’s face splits open with a grin.  

Liza shrugs and smiles politely, heading toward the bar before back going back to Backy.

Tom tugs on Mike’s sleeve guiding him toward the doorway and into the hall.

“What’s up, Willy, you’re like, bouncing out of your skin,” Mike says looking concerned and amused at once.

Tom’s heart has picked up speed, somehow, over the past thirty seconds and now it feels like it’s racing out of control. His palms are sweaty with nerves but he can’t stop smiling. It’s like he’s been searching for the door to a room he didn’t already know he was standing in.

“Latts, I,” Tom pauses.

Mike raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“I love you,” Tom says in an exhale.

Mike stares at him, eyes darting back and forth and up and down Tom’s face.

“Is that it?” Mike asks.

“Is that it? What the fuck do you mean is that it?” Tom questions, shame starting to prickle at his chest.

Mike’s face is blank for another second and then in the next he’s laughing, doubled over and reaching out to Tom to help hold himself up.

“What the fuck is so funny, Latts?” Tom asks and he knows this is totally not the right reaction, but for some reason it’s not scaring him.

Tom let’s Mike laugh it off for a little bit longer before pulling him in, cradling his hands around Mike’s doofus face.

“I know,” Mike says, simply. He kisses him sweetly.

“I do too,” Mike repeats back.

They stare at each other for just a second, and maybe if it was anyone other than the two of them this would be a moment, like one of the movies his mom love to watch, where the music starts playing and the camera pans out. But it’s not and it’s them, so Mike pulls Tom into a headlock.

“I thought you were gonna tell me you had a secret love child or some shit, Tom! God, your face I’ve never seen you so damn serious in my life,” Mike says while messing up Tom’s hair.

Tom makes the most of a break in Mike’s torment to push him against the hallway wall. He kisses Mike once, twice, and then presses a sloppy open mouth kiss to the side of Mike’s cheek.

“Gross!” Mike yells, but Tom is already running halfway down the hallway, heart pounding and exploding with how badly he never wants this all to end.

 

**Author's Note:**

> plz come talk to me about these two and about hockey in general i have so many feelings


End file.
